The Clever Boy and the Foolish Crows
by Esid
Summary: A boy somehow gets across the Wall without the Crows noticing, bringing unrest to the group of Free Folk that find him.


One of the tribesmen smashed his fist down on the wooden table, making it shake momentarily to gain the attention of the others. "That's a _boy_ you're talking about!" His jaw clenched and his voice filled of equal parts disgust and rage as he eyed those that sat at the table as well as those that were unfortunate enough to have to stand. "What can a _boy_ do? Soil himself? If you really think that the Crows would send a _boy_ barely able to hold up a sword to do a man's job, you must be more of an idiot _and_ craven than you look!"

Amidst the soft playing of a lute, there was some snickering followed by grumbles of agreement from some of the others present. To think that a child would put the chieftains of the free folk on edge like that was outstanding. Like it was said, the boy they found was nothing more than a child of five, maybe six. He had no weapons other than a dagger, which was quickly taken from him along his other possessions. It was clear that the boy wasn't out there hunting for them, but there were some that would think otherwise—always mistrustful of outsiders.

"Boy or not, he comes from the bloody south!" One of the other tribe chieftains was quick to remind them all. Normally, the mention of southerners was always met with anger as most of the free folk would immediately link that with the Crows. "We ought to cut his head off and his pecker and send it to the Wall as a present! Keep them from coming this side for some time."

Once again there were those that agreed with this view as well. The numbers were evenly split, with over half of the votes remaining neutral, despite the many hours that had already gone by. They were getting nowhere, it would seem. A voice could easily end the discussion, but that was at the risk of alienating some of the folk if the decision was made to be an ultimatum.

"Have you seen the boy? He wears gray, not black! They'll think we slaughter our own. You want to send a head and a pecker? Why don't you capture one of their rangers? _That_ would send a message. The boy? No good will come from killing him. He survived the trek here. Maybe the gods wanted him here for a reason."

"You are going soft for a boy, Tormund? Or maybe hard? Perhaps you want to keep the boy for yourself…"

The words were left to linger in the air for sometime, with those that wanted the boy dead snickering or right out laughing at the would-be-jest. But on the other side of the table, Tormund Giantsbane, a man large enough to be thought as half giant, remained quiet, his eyes piercing his opposer. A quiet Tormund was never a good sign of anything to come—a brawl being that "anything" the better half of the time, a few broken skulls been the worse. And as the man began to scowl at the other chieftain, it was clear things were heating up rather quickly, despite the snow piling up just outside the thin walls they found themselves surrounded by. Those that had been laughing thought better of it, leaving the entire place silent except for the lute that still played in the background over the sounds coming from outside the tent. The chill brought by the silence could be compared to that of the cold felt from the falling snow. It was enough to make some lesser chieftains uncomfortable, going by the looks some shared or the fidgeting they thought no one would notice.

Though glares were being exchanged, the moment the lute stopped playing, the attention of them all turned to the player himself. The man laid his lute down gingerly besides his seat. There was an air of authority about him that, despite not being the strongest, tallest, or even quickest of the lot present, commanded the respect of every single person there. Saying nothing, he stood from his chair, bringing with him an iron and bronze helmet as he walked towards one end of the massive table. Like the lute, he was careful with the way he set down the helmet on the wooden surface. Without sparing anyone a glance, he took a deep breath and said, "until we know more, no one touches the boy."

For a moment it seemed that no one would argue against the decision until the same disagreeing chieftain spoke up once more. "You want to keep another kneeler here? Aren't you enough?"

It was incredible how, despite having sworn to cooperate, there were still some people that would openly argue against his decisions. It was to be expected. It wasn't in the nature of the Free Folk to follow a leader—a King, as some were taking to calling him. They kept to themselves, only worrying about their own good and those close to them. Mance Rayder, on the other hand, was trying to unite them all against a greater threat, which was no easy task. As Tormund had once told him, it would have been easier to enslave the giants and have them bring down the Wall they'd once helped build than to unite the Free Folk. Yet, uniting the tribes beyond-the-Wall was what he would do, at any cost. After all, much like the Starks liked to remind the world, winter was coming.

Mance turned to look at the chief, no malice staining his composed expression. He lowered himself to lean on the table, making his black cloak with the red cloth sewn onto it fall over his shoulders. "A child hunts because they see their parents hunt. A child plays with swords because they see their father and uncles fight with swords. A child kneels because they see their parent kneel. They are young. They are stupid. Like sheep, they follow a shepherd. I doubt he knows what it means to kneel. For now, we see what he has to say for himself."

There was displeasure amongst those present, but nonetheless, they saw there was no swaying Mance until after he'd spoken with the child. One by one, they rose to leave until the only ones left inside the tent were Mance and Tormund, who still sat with a scowl, drumming his fingers on the table hard enough for it to be heard.

"What are you going to do if you don't like what you hear from the boy?" Tormund asked, turning to look at the once-Crow. Be it because the man had lost two of his own recently or for some other reason unknown to Mance, it seemed that Tormund would try to defend the boy no matter what. Perhaps he did think that the boy was sent to them by the gods. He did not wear the bands on his arms for nothing—he kept the gold shining, despite the many scratches they'd suffered from fights, with the runes that decorated them easy to see. _People refer to him as the Speaker of Gods_ , Mance reminded himself as he eyed the other man. _But that was back in Ruddy Hall._ _Can he still do so here?_

"We cross that bridge when we come to it." In truth, Mance didn't want to think about it. If the boy was sent by the Crows, the child could open his mouth to the new Lord Commander—the Old Bear—and doom all the Free Folk in the process. If he was sent to Craster's Keep, he would likely end up like all of Craster's sons. There were many other possible ways to deal with the child, but all of them were equally cruel or even gruesome, one way or another.

Donning his helmet and making sure his cloak was well secured, he left the tent with Tormund following close behind, not saying anything else. With the first step he took outside, he was hit hard by the cold winds that came from the north—from the Lands of Always Winter. Despite the Long Summer, it felt the same as a short winter to the people beyond the wall, as it never seemed to stop snowing that far north. It was a cruel reminder that the only thing that separated the free folk from living a life of leisure was that damn monstrosity of ice built by Bran the Builder.

Despite the cold, the camp was lively. There was not a single man or woman that wasn't busy working on whatever task they had been assigned, more to keep themselves alive than to keep the camp running. And there was always work to do when in a camp of ten thousand, be it washing clothes, sharpening spears, or hunting whatever game they could find.

They'd been camped there for two weeks already. That was far longer than they had ever camped on a single place for the last two years. The free folk would not settle lands in large numbers. Not since Hardhome. It was still considered a bad omen, despite the hundreds of years that had already come to pass. The only reason they were forced to stop was because of the boy's appearance that far north. Not even the Crows had ventured that far North for decades. So, how, and more importantly, why had to boy done so on his own?

Mance and Tormund walked through the soft snow that kept falling, making their way towards the tent where the boy was being kept, away from prying eyes. Or at least, that's what it was supposed to be. Several of the children were near the tent, but none of them dared get closer to it. Munda and Dormund, Tormund's youngests, were amongst the children. Seeing them there, Tormund trotted forward to reach their side, something in him clearly igniting. "What are you rascals doing here? I _told_ you not to come near this place! Go! Before I beat some sense into you all!"

All but Tormund's own scattered when the giant-of-a-man came to a stop near them. Mance could only laugh, seeing the little ones trying their best to run away with snow that went well past their ankles. Munda and Dormund turned to face their father, calm and collected, despite being caught.

"I hear you got a southerner that wears no black in there! I wanna see," Munda said, not being able to hide her eagerness. Her big, doe eyes shone as she painted herself whatever picture she had in mind of what a southerner was like. "Part wolf, Ryk said. I told him he was stupid and shoved him aside, but now I have to see for myself if it's true or no."

"You won't see him," Tormund declared, leaving no room for argument. For a moment it seemed like the little girl would be speaking her mind, but perhaps because it was her father that had ordered her, she thought it best not to do so. As for Dormund, the boy looked pale ever since his father had caught them. Not that it mattered. They already knew what they were doing there from Munda. "You shouldn't be here. Go look for Toregg. Stay with him. I don't want to see you around here again. And Dormund" he turned to look at his son, "make sure she _stays_ with Toregg. I don't want to be looking for any of you come the night."

Once all the children left, Tormund and Mance walked over to the entrance of the tent, where Tormund would stand watch. The two locked eyes for a moment. Mance knew that neither of them wanted to see the boy die, but it was still a possibility. Mance put on his winged helmet and took a deep breath before entering the tent unannounced.

The boy looked surprised when Mance entered. He'd been kept apart from camp for so long that he probably wasn't expecting anyone to come see him. It was strange. There was no fear in the boy—no fear that Mance could see. Even the Crows, who knew what they were up against, still cowered when they'd been captured. Not the boy. No, he stilled, watching the wildling, as they were called in the other side of the wall, intently.

"Do you know who I am?" Mance asked, his voice sounding gruff, more than he had intended. The boy did not open his mouth, instead shaking his head. It was no surprise. Though his name was well known amongst the Watch, southerners wouldn't know who he was or what he was doing. Outside the Lords of Karhold, Last Hearth, Bear Island, the Dreadfort, and Winterfell, not many cared about what happened beyond the wall. "I know who _you_ are. We've met before, you and I. In Winterfell."

Finally, the boy seemed affected. He'd paled enough to blend in with the snow outside the tent, but even if they were outside, his black hair and gray clothes would give him away. "I… You are wrong…"

"It happened years ago. You had to be two, maybe three years old. Your father was there. So was your brother." At the mention of his family, the boy clenched his hands and shook lightly before he composed himself. Mance took a step forward and the boy scooted backwards, at all times keeping his eyes on Mance. "I was a Crow back then. I was part of a dozen Crows the then Lord Commander took to Winterfell to speak with Eddard Stark. You were there. Your brother was there. Benjen Stark was supposed to be there, but he was ranging, so I was taken instead."

"You are wrong… I'm not-"

"You are a Stark," Mance interrupted.

"I'm not a Stark!"

Mance snickered. "Your eyes and long face say otherwise. So much a Stark that I would say you are Eddard Stark come-again."

"I'm not a Stark…" the boy repeated, this time finding the ground to be more interesting than the man standing in front of him. "I am a Snow; a bastard. Lady Stark always reminds me of it, so I won't get it wrong. People call me the Bastard of Winterfell when they think I'm not listening…and no one stops them."

"Aye, I've heard as much during my time with the Crows. The only stain in Eddard Stark's honor: Jon Snow. But Snow or not, you have blood of the Starks running through you. And Starks always bring misfortunes to the Free Folk. So tell me, Jon _Snow_ , why are you here?"

Jon Snow seemed to hesitate for a moment, but Mance wasn't giving the boy much of a choice other than responding. "I had no future there. Being a bastard, I can't amount to much. Father refused to have me fostered anywhere else, which meant I would never be able to become anything other than a bastard. I wouldn't inherit lands. Lady Stark would make sure of that. And when I told my Father that I wished to take the black, he forbade me to do so…"

 _A child's worries_ , Mance thought as he looked at the brooding boy. "I know the stories your people paint of the Crows. All honor and glory when in reality they are mostly thieves, murderers, and rapists. Some lord will take the black from time to time, aye, but those are few and far in between."

The boy did not respond, brooding to himself instead. "You could have gone to Essos," Mance continued. "Train with a mercenary company; maybe the Company of the Rose. Maybe become a squire some day, perhaps even a knight. They were from your _lord_ father's lands once. They would take a Stark in, even if you are only a Snow."

"I didn't have the coin to reach White Harbor, let alone sail across the Narrow Sea," Jon Snow said dejectedly. It would seem that at the very least, the boy had thought about it before.

"You had enough to reach the Wall," Mance quickly pointed out. "It may be closer than the Harbor, but the only ones that go to the wall are Crows. You could've reached Mole Town at most without someone spotting you."

"Some of the Watch's builder went to Winterfell to collect supplies. I hid in one of the wagons with food and water when no one was looking… We reached the Shadow Tower after a few days. After that, I moved to the tunnel on the Wall at night and waited there until a ranging party was sent out. I snuck out and hid on the shadow of the Wall until nightfall..."

"You are a smart boy," Mance said with a grin. The journey itself would make for a good song for the Free Folk. _The clever boy and the foolish Crows or The southern Snow._ Already the melody was composing in his mind. That would have to wait, however. He now knew that Jon Snow hadn't come to harm them, not that it could be otherwise. And though he gave a vague explanation as to why he'd come, he left Mance with more questions than answers. No man, bastard or otherwise, would willingly cross the Wall when they had the chance to live in a keep, let alone one like Winterfell.

Mance could still remember his short stay there. The immense stone walls being as wide as they were tall. The warmth of the the keep, with water heating up each and every one of the rooms. The food Eddard Stark had offered them. It was all too good to leave behind. "But you were stupid to come here. _Why_ did you come here?"

Jon Snow's Stark eyes—gray eyes that had seemed like fog—suddenly turned to steel. The boy did not respond. It would seem that whatever his reason was for coming, Mance wouldn't be able to get it out of him so simply.

* * *

 **Notes**

 **Year: 288**

 **Jeor Mormont becomes Lord Commander of the Night's Watch  
**

 **Benjen Stark already has the position of First Ranger**

 **The Greyjoy's rebellion still hasn't happened**


End file.
